Rose Button
by Otto's Goat
Summary: No togethergrave for Sam and Rosie Gamgee. Fluff.


---

She has known for a long time now that they will not rest side by side when they die.

_No together-grave for Sam and Rosie Gamgee; no sweet resting place beneath the hill where all the other hobbits sleep when life has left them._

She has known it since that day when he said goodbye to that friend of his; aye, friend and Master. It was she who saw the sea reflected in his eyes upon his return, it was through his eyes she saw the clear waters of the world; the tossing of the seas and of the world beyond all knowledge. It bothered her at first, but now she thinks little of it. She has grown accustomed to knowing that he will one day leave their home, as she has grown used to the scars that he still carries, scars that are both visible and not; scars that she has mended all the days of their life together; scars that will never heal nor fade.

But it has been a good life.

They have worked side by side, tending to their garden, and watching the children grow and scatter like seeds in the warm summer wind. The years have been long and many. Their brood visits daily, but it is only the two of them now that fill the warm hobbit hole with noise and the pitter-patter of feet.

She has grown sick in the past months, and the cold she developed over the course of the winter still plagues her, though she does not tell him of it.

"My rose-button," he says with a smile at breakfast, touching her cheek with a calloused hand.

They sit and talk of the happenings beyond their front door, and she is pleased to note that he already has his gardening vest on. The day is warm and soft, as tender as any morn can be, and they will spend it kneeling in the dirt, talking and singing one to another.

He doesn't seem to mind that her voice has grown hoarse of late; that it is not as clear as it was so many years before.

---

She frets that there is no one to make him breakfast, but he insists that she lie still in bed.

"How many years did I spend serving others, eh, Rosie?" He asks, tucking her in and propping up the pillows behind her. "Do you think your Sam can't make a nice enough meal? I'll have your breakfast and mine own ready in just a few minutes more. You sit there nice and still, and your dear husband Sam will prepare you a feast in no time."

She listens to him making the noises that she usually makes in the mornings: banging pots and pans, cracking open eggs, singing a trifle too loudly. It fills her with loneliness; listening to him talking on to himself, as though…_ as though life has already changed for him_, she says to herself. Her cough has worsened, and now she can feel a weight upon her chest. When she moves, it feels as though water sloshes about in her lungs; it grows heavier with each passing day.

"I'm really just fine and dandy, Samwise Gamgeee," she insists however, when he returns, baring her a tray full of steaming food. "After this here breakfast I plan on joining you out in that garden."

He does not say anything at first, but frowns into his plateful of eggs.

"'Tis hot, Rosie-rose-button, don't be scalding your tongue," is his only warning.

---

The children are all present, gathered about the round bedroom with anxious faces. She waves them away.

"Go! leave your mother in peace!" she says with a smile and a laugh, though in truth she does not like to see them all so gathered about her, thinking to herself that she has never seen them lined up so curiously from eldest to youngest since they were wee-little ones and no taller than her waist. How the years have flown!

Samwise leads them out, and leans against the door, watching her all the while. She pats the spot next to her, and he rests himself on the throw with a wary, thoughtful sigh.

"They only meant to be kind, dear," he says, fingering a lock of hair.

"Why is that they like to come all at once when one of us is ill? Do they think we are that old?" she asks lightly, taking hold of his hand and examining the nails. "Sam, you must take care of your hands, they are rather grimy." Her tone is curiously dry.

He laughs and takes up her own hand: it is just as dirty.

"We can't help it, Rosie-rose," he tells her, sliding in between the sheets and wrapping an arm about her, "dirt follows us Gamgees like flies on a cow."

"But I'm not a Gamgee," she protests, her eyes closing with sleep. He grins.

"You are, you are," he whispers and smiles.

"… All the years of gardening," she murmurs in defense; grows still.

He watches her sleep until he too cannot keep his eyes open.

---

He brings her the first rose of summer, and presents it to her in the early afternoon light. She takes it readily and shrewdly inspects the petals.

"A very nice plant, Sam," she says, breathing in the scent. "One of your best."

"It's a new one, dear," he takes it back and places it into a vase beside their bed. "It's taken me many years to get it right, but I think I've now succeeded."

"Oh?"

"I've named it after you."

"You named a rose _Rosie_?" She asks skeptically.

He throws his head back and laughs, "No dear, am I that silly? I've named it Rose-button."

She smiles and closes her eyes, "That's nice of you Sam. Would you mind pulling the curtains across the windows? The light is upsetting my eyes."

He is hurt, but obliges.

He knows there is not much time now.

---

When she finally goes, he is not ready. _As if one could ever be ready!_-- He can almost hear her voice beyond their bedroom door.

It is like every other morning, and it seems as though their life has consisted of only mornings, for it was their favorite time of the day.

He wakes and reaches for her hand, but it is cold.

He knows then, that she is gone, but he keeps her hand in his; he's not ready to give in so soon.

She's been a part of him now for many years, and her smile and stubbornness seem to have a life of their own, as did the rest of her. How can she be gone, when she is resting so comfortably beside him; when parts of her are still there within their room?

At last he opens eyes; eyes still heavy with memories, not sleep, and looks only to the hand encased within his own. He finds himself smiling at the dirt under the nails, and fingers the familiar wrist fondly.

That night, he dreams of the rolling sea, and of his Rosie waiting patiently for him just across it.

---

The sun touches his head with warm hands, and he sits still, watching the waves that will carry him across memories and a well-spent lifetime. There, in the far horizon, stand waiting friends, and he thinks he can hear them singing him home.

But he knows that a part of him will forever lie under a certain distant hill. And in his pocket is a seedling; he plans to have it grow once more, only this time in soil that is still pure and dark and rich, as was meant from the very beginning.

So in a way, he reasons, he is taking her with him.

"Rosie-rose-button," he murmurs to himself, finding that already, the memory of her name upon his lips is faint and fleeting.

--


End file.
